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I really didn't mean to do this to you. Slapping you on the face just as we were about to board the plane and accusing of pinching my rear. I'm so sorry I had to do this to you. Especially as you had done nothing. You see, the security wanted me to take my shoes off as I went through the security gate. And of all days, I had to wear my silly, old, torn purple sock on one leg and my husband's striped brown cotton sock on the other. I couldn't let them see me like this. I had to come up with something quick. And I couldn't think of anything else. I'm so, so sorry. I have some face cream in my handbag that might help.

She opens the drawer and a formidable challenge looks out at her. A pile of black socks scattered about, each looking for its better half. Some are turned inside-out, wiry little strings sticking out at the edges, like little moustaches. Others have bled out in the washing, not so black anymore. A few have withered, and shrunk, and others have stretched into awkward shapes. She empties them onto the bed; they remind her of people she knows.

He's getting too fat for this job. He doesn't remember it being this difficult before. Maybe he should consider that diet his wife keeps talking about.

Then again, maybe it's just that the chimney is narrow. That's the trouble with coming to this part of town. He doesn't know why he bothers. It's not like the poor deserve Christmas anyway.

Wheezing and spluttering with soot he emerges from the fireplace, trying not to make too much noise. They probably have thin walls here. Now where the devil is it? Ah there! But what's this? Those aren't stockings. Can't these people do anything properly?

Standing in the pale winter moonlight he stares at the pair of socks, their fabric worn thin at the heel, a hole visible in one toe and suddenly he feels something give way inside him, feels tears in the corners of his eyes. Hastily he unloads gifts from his sack, not bothering to check his list. When the sack is empty, he feels better. "Ho! Ho! Ho!" he whispers to himself, as he slips out the window.

There it is again. That bit in the story where someone - some doting mother or devoted wife - darns some man's socks. Something about these scenes always annoys her. She knows it's supposed to be all touching and beautiful, but I mean really, who darns socks anymore? She wouldn't even know how to. The most she does for her husband is buy him new socks when his old ones wear out, and even that she gets grief for from her women friends, who claim she's spoiling him and that he should learn to buy his own socks. The only reason she does it is because he never seems to realize that his socks have holes in them, and he goes on wearing them, and eventually she's the one who ends up feeling embarrassed. But darning them! That's like something her grandmother would have done. She flings the book aside impatiently, picks up a magazine.

Then she saw the carefully folded pair of white socks. It had a slight blue tinge to it in parts. She mistakenly put the socks for wash along with her blue kurta. He meticulously got on the job of removing the stain. That was exactly how he was – scrupulous. The ash-tray should be on the table, a bottle of water at the left corner of the bed, pans arranged in ascending order of size, books too and all socks correctly paired and arranged carefully in the sock-drawer.

There was just this pair of socks and a T Shirt left to remind her of him.

He never used to stay over at her place. It was always her. She would pretty much live in his apartment, which is why his clothes were never in her cupboard.

She never understood why he bought a pair of white socks to go with his black shoes. ‘It’s so gay’, she told him once. ‘Well, do you want me to prove right NOW that am not gay’, was his cheesy playful dialogue for the day. She used to love those b-grade dialogues of his.

Probably it was right to let him go. She could not even do his laundry properly. The bluish-white socks tell her that. She then put both the socks one on top of the other, folded them together in 2 quick folds starting from the toe-side and put it back in the right corner of the sock-drawer.

I don't know why but have a mild sockophobia... I almost always avoid them. Even looking at them if they are in the store for display.

It was an otherwise perfectly romantic evening.We had a great conversation going on and were really sparks flying.. yep we were duelling..Then we went out for a walk nd were talking those sweet nothings nd she said she has a fetish for socks... Oops...

the bag bulges in weird shapes. she hefts it onto her frail shoulders and trudges on, a steely, determined look on her face. as she nears the building, she pauses, sniffs, and falls in a faint, right there on the steps leading into the gym. in the pale early morning light, the security guard steps out, 'Hey' he shouts. He opens the straps on the bag, in idle curiosity, as she is being revived in the corner. out they tumble, pair after pair of sweaty socks.

She wondered if socks have invisible wings and they just fly off to distant lands tired of being hung on a cloth line for days. She stared at the lonely sock, waiting for its other half - better/worse. Then she carefully folded it and kept it in the almirah. The other half might turn up one day. Whats the harm in hoping? Sigh.. then she hummed that song she heard the night before.

"it took you a while to call...we haven't spoken in a while you know. i was worried..."

"oh no aunty," i said, almost apologetic, not expecting the firm, almost-scolding-tone on the other side. but there was something else about it...

"things were really hectic out here...visitors, kid falling sick...you know..." i fumbled, groping around pathetically for words that sounded like a good excuse for not keeping in touch with my father's only friends-in-london. "you must visit us soon aunty d, we live close to the tube now." there, that might lighten her up a bit.

"hmm, send me your address by post then, and take care, and keep in touch." she hung up. "wait a minute...where do i post it to?" but it was too late. her tone scolded me even after the phone call. why did she sound the way she did, most londoners didn't...even if they were of south indian origin...

i sat down, smsed aunty our new home address, her voice still slurry in my head...

slurry!! that was it!

i chuckled to myself...looks like aunty's been drinking, i thought, while my mobile beeped: 'message sent.'

in a lonely kitchen in south london, another mobile beeped. an elderly woman jumped to her feet, hurriedly taking the mobile out of her sock that she'd stuffed in absent-mindedly, and slipping back in - the little whisky vial that always concealed itself so well inside.